The New York Times recently investigated two of its favorite subjects: boning and millennials. What they found might shock you!

While general human curiosity may be piqued by the subject of coitus, if we have to point a finger in the direction of the real perverts in the room, they are, undoubtedly, the scientifically minded among us. According to a study referenced in our paper of record a color-printed leaflet of reasons to hate white people, millennials aren’t boning as much as previous generations did, let alone finding new ways to get elbow-deep in one another. But! In perhaps more shocking news, we’re also not not having sex; a lot of us are still doing the ol’ lay-down-move-around on a regular basis—85 percent of participants in the aforementioned study have done it in the past year. The New York Times thought it was imperative for you to know that most people in their twenties and thirties are still having sex, and even paid someone who probably has a journalism degree to let you know about it while you scrounge in the couch for quarters to pay your landlord. (Just let that sink in for a minute.)

It’s only natural that we’re interested in the smashing habits of our friends and neighbors. Most of my relationships could have achieved the same level of closeness by skipping the boring introductions and cutting to an in-depth discussion of whether or not getting fingered on a roller coaster is as wildly erotic and dangerous as Mark Wahlberg makes it look in Fear. When a friend or acquaintance asks about your children, your career, or your feelings on the summer Olympics, their intention is rarely to find out about the best middle schools in your district; they just want to get to a point where you’re close enough to tell them about that time your raucous boink-fest forced the health department to shut down an entire Dairy Queen. Talking about sex is fun!

However, the real question here isn’t “Who is funding studies about our sexual habits, and couldn’t that money serve this population better by going to a cure for mega-chlamydia?” but “Does it really matter?”

“With the rampant availability of all kinds of strange, it’s hard to even make the case for sex being our most intimate act anymore.”

As our understanding of, and appreciation for, the nuances of gender and sexual orientation continue to expand, so, too, do the parameters of what it means to have sex. While only a handful of years ago, your information would only be counted on the sexual census if you were doing straight P in V, we now know that sex is so much more than that—it’s just as much romantic dinners that lead to adorable little IRA-drainers as it is two guys who met at a Quiznos getting naked and painting a picture of a clown with their butts.

Despite what religious zealots and other buzzkills will tell you, there’s no right amount of sex, no magic number of weekly pound sessions that will keep your significant other from cheating on you, and no reason to assume that periods of waxing or waning sexual desire have to mean something greater in the grand scheme of your relationship. With the rampant availability of all kinds of strange, it’s hard to even make the case for sex being our most intimate act anymore; true closeness and comfort are better achieved through holiday dinners with judgmental family members and admitting you’ve never actually watched The Wire. Whether your relationship is based entirely around your desire to put your mouths on one another or whether it’s virtually devoid of said act, there’s no right answer when it comes to how much you’re getting it in. The most important thing is that you’re both on the same page when it comes to how much you want and expect to take the train to PoundTown.

That said, it’s okay to want to have a lot of sex! Or none at all! With few exceptions, there’s someone, or maybe even a whole German movie theater full of people, who want to hold up signs, Love Actually–style, to proclaim just how perfect they think getting naked with you might be. Just make sure to tip The New York Times off if you and Gunter and Dieter and Margarete do end up consummating your love for one another’s oiled-up flesh during a midnight screening of The Lives of Others; I’m sure there’s a story in there somewhere.

“You ain’t gotta be rich, but fuck that, how we gonna get around on your bus pass?” asks Amil on “Can I Get A,” a classic Jay Z collaboration about personal finance. While I don’t know that bus passes are something that most people concern themselves with this side of the last Clinton administration, the general sentiment hasn’t changed: when you’re dating, somebody should be footing the bill for both of you.

At some point, we collectively decided that if we were going to put ourselves through the sex preamble we pretend is about getting to know one another, there should be a free movie, meal, yoga class, or some other type of monetary transaction involved, depending on what type of psychopath you’re most inclined to date. This idea that someone should be paying for everything seems to stand in stark contrast with the idea that the two people on the date are equals. In many couplings, the person tasked with handing over their credit card is essentially putting quarters into dating’s claw machine, hoping that another chance to eat together, or perhaps a light fondling session, will be snapped up in the mechanical vice grip of love. And yes, it might be an antiquated practice, but among heterosexual couples, it’s often assumed that if you’re a dude, you’re the one paying.

Let’s take a moment to consider that generally speaking, when sex isn’t on the table, there’s no expectation that somebody else will be treating you to a latte or a friendly romp through John Boehner’s sex labyrinth. When we’re actually trying to get to know other people in a non-fluid swapping context, we bring cash. I suggest you do the same on dates.

If you’re the kind of person to whom it’s important to always pay for dates, take a hard look at yourself and consider why that is—shelling out money for another person doesn’t make you a hero, and a date worth sticking around for isn’t looking to be saved.

Once you’re solidly in a relationship, I think there are certainly times when a paid-for date wouldn’t go unappreciated, but after a certain point, it feels like you’re handing money back and forth. When your relationship becomes transactional, the romance slowly fades until you’re basically just roommates with boundary issues. I’ll buy the groceries, you buy me drinks, I’ll wear that dog collar, you don’t tell my mother you voted for Ron Paul, and so on and so forth. I don’t want to feel bad about ordering lobster when we’re out because you don’t get paid until Friday and your bank account’s looking a little anemic; I want to feel bad about ordering lobster because I had another living thing boiled alive so I could drink a stick of butter.

When there’s no expectation that someone else will shell out cash for the thing you’ve both agreed to do, there’s an honesty and an openness that’s hard to achieve when someone’s expecting dinner at the French Laundry and you make them watch a pirated copy of Ratatouille on our sister’s laptop while you do your whites. You’re not buying your date, you’re not buying their time, and there’s no reason you should be buying their food, either. Start with a level playing field—slices of pizza, meals you cooked at home, a Netflix queue you’ve curated enough to keep your date from wondering what it could possibly mean that you binge-watched all of One Tree Hill.

Save the money you would have spent taking out somebody who’s probably just trying to harvest your organs on something you’ll use. Go Dutch forever. One Tree Hill is on Blu-Ray now, or so I’ve heard.

If you’ve ever ventured outside of the United States, you’ve probably noticed that there’s a seismic cultural shift the second you touch down. The nuns and infants have left their handguns at home, and on receipts, the tip line magically disappears. To the rest of the world, American tipping culture is a perverse experiment. Elsewhere, the idea that hungry, rushed, and often drunk strangers would be the gatekeepers between you and your ability to pay your bills each month seems unfair, at best.

While in the grand old US of A, it’s standard operating procedure to carry around a stack of ones large enough to pay for all your friends at two-for-one lap dance night every time you want to order a latte, many other countries have implemented a system in which employees are compensated for the hours they work. It’s horrifying. So who should we be tipping, anyway?

Angry baristas
If the tip jar says something coffee-themed and generally inoffensive, like “leave me a tip and I’ll like you a latte,” go for it. If it says something like, “saving for improv classes,” be the change you want to see in the world and burn that dollar instead.

A powerful witch who cast a spell for you
The last time I neglected to tip my witch, she stroked my face, and whispered, “thinner.” Money in my pocket and a lifelong wish accomplished? Win-win.

Your dog trainer
I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford to have another foxhunt ruined by a vengeful, un-tipped trainer. Twenty percent should do.

Your barber
If you’re not tipping your hair stylist approximately 50 percent, you’re essentially giving them license to give you early-2000s skunk highlights and cut your hair with a Flowbee. Give them your money, say please and thank you, or have your mom cut your hair at home, like all of my college boyfriends.

Your doctor
My doctor’s always giving me tips, like, “Stop using a Rascal to get from your car to the front of your house” and “Yes, even redheads can get STDs,” but when I try giving him a fiver for his time, he says that’s not how this works. We all have loans, buddy.

Your falconer
Establishing a trusting relationship with your falconer means paying him an adequate wage in gold. Your tip is your loyalty, and your loyalty is the true measure of a leader.

A bartender
A buck or two for beers, at least 15 percent for cocktails.

A bartender you had sex with
Performance-based only, and never if they mix you anything with the word “nipple” in it.

Your psychic
Here’s a fun game to play with your psychic: if they can guess how much you were going to tip them, they get that exact amount.

Your mailman
Hey, Kevin, here’s a tip: when you stop delivering all my Spanx to the 19-year-old bros across the street, you’ll get another thing of snickerdoodles.

Forget the eggplant. Or the donut. These are the best Bat Signals… for sex.

As Alabama governor Robert Bentley found out the hard way, turning emoji texts into a bone sesh isn’t always as simple as it looks—especially when you’re sending them to the wrong woman. Bentley’s mistake didn’t end at sending texts intended for his mistress to his wife, who immediately knew that her husband wasn’t romantic enough to text her a fucking rose emoji (the tears). His plan to secure some action with an emoji that the most insecure teenagers would consider corny was doomed from the start.

Keeping things fun and sexy is about so much more than throwing an eggplant or donut into the mix once in a while. It’s about setting the right mood and conveying just how much you care without risking finger strain from typing actual words.

Worst emoji for getting it in:

Going to jail, going to jail, hey-o we’re all going to jail. I mean, it happens to the best of us, but I wouldn’t advertise. There isn’t enough mouthwash in the world. My parents have dealt with the the spider problem in their basement, m’lady. I’m sure you could make some kind of joke involving the word “hole” here, but you’re basically just admitting that she’s going to be bored for the whole afternoon.

Bonetown:

Two girls? Strippers? They’re reviving The Playboy Club? Let’s do this. Thank you for not making anyone text the word “wet.” All the class of pretending we’re going on a movie date and all the kindness of not making anyone prep two holes. Nobody wants to guess what you’re into. Predictable, dependable, eco-friendly, no stretching required.

Are her friends chronic shit-talkers? Does one of them maybe want to see your peen? Don’t fret and proceed accordingly.

Without romantic relationships, our newspaper headlines would have nothing to offer but story after story of men and women dying alone, crushed under an ever-growing pile of Hot Pockets wrappers. While, for many of us, dating is a one-on-one activity (don’t worry, I see you, polyamorists friends!), even most monogamous relationships have more than two people involved. When you do find the person you’re willing to share your shower and fluids with, you’re not just bringing a co-captain aboard the sinking ship you call your life, you’re bringing on their friends, too.

Your significant other’s friends are an essential part of their being, much like hentai and loneliness are for the rest of us. They’ve been carefully assembled over a lifetime of bachelorette auctions and Hip Hop Abs classes, and those bonds, as I believe it says in the Constitution and most sorority contracts, can be broken only in death. So what happens when those pals aren’t exactly your kind of people? Can you make a relationship last when you hate your significant other’s friends?

Here’s how to deal.

Situation A: They’re talking trash about you

For certain people, trash talking is just another way to communicate. If your partner’s friends have less-than-complimentary things to say about you, try to distance yourself from the situation enough to figure out whether it’s all in good fun or they really hate you. There’s a big difference between, “Are we feeling good about Jeff’s running socks?” and “I think we should set fire to Jeff’s running socks inside his car.” While it never feels good to have people make fun of you, a bit of playful ribbing has its place, and figuring out how to give it right back may earn you their respect in the long run. Or they’ll set fire to your car. I’m not a fortune teller.

Can you overcome it: Yes

Situation B: They love making trouble

Just ask anyone with a nickname like “Fun Jimmy” or “Sloppy Karen”: doing stuff that could get you into trouble is a lot of fun! However, there’s a big difference between getting high and hanging out on a playground and crashing the housing market. If the reason you hate your significant other’s friends is because they’re closing all the toll lanes on the George Washington Bridge, that seems like something worth addressing. It’s okay to say something! But if they brought a thermos full of Barefoot Bubbly into Hamilton and you just fucking love rules, let it slide, hall monitor.

Can you overcome it: Probably

Situation C: They’re actively trying to have sex with one of you

Being in a relationship doesn’t mean you suddenly stop having a charming personality or a butt that works overtime. Even if you don’t think you or your significant other is giving off come-hither vibes to their friends, sometimes, they’ll still want to be the creepy meat (liverwurst, probably) in your relationship sandwich. It’s not uncommon for people to attempt to quell the feelings of abandonment they experience when their closest human seems to share a deeper bond with someone else by trying to share a grosser, wetter bond with them instead. Luckily, this is probably more of a subconscious act than you’re assuming—even hinting about a threeway will probably make your significant other’s pal so uncomfortable that you all have to move off the face of the earth in order to avoid run-ins. Of course, there are those people out there who really, genuinely do want to have sex with you or your partner, societal norms be damned. If you’re not into it, stop inviting them over before Jeremy from IT is doing a poor reenactment of the Varsity Blues whipped cream bikini scene in your living room.

Can you overcome it: Maybe

As idiots so often say, “the best ships are friendships,” when of course, the best ships are the ones your girlfriend’s rich college roommate lets you drink on, so play nice and let those bonds flourish. Ahoy!

In the long list of stupid things I have said, done, and thought, perhaps none have been so fundamentally misguided as trying to maintain a romantic relationship with someone I have had to share covers with. While sharing a bed with someone you love/enjoy splitting bills with is an act that represents a willingness to expose yourself at your most vulnerable (naked and sleep-talking about the logical flaws in Gattaca, for example) sharing blankets means spending night after night in an unconscious fight for dominance and survival. A Freddy Krueger dream from which you may never wake up.

The notion of people who are not blood relatives sleeping under two separate blankets when sharing a bed is taboo, I know. When I’ve brought it up in polite company, even the most genteel dinner guests have smashed their wine glasses on the table and threatened to cut me with the broken stems. “WHAT ABOUT LOVE?” they scream. However, despite the rage, the disgust, the rescinded invitations to the White House Christmas party, I know in my heart that sleeping under separate blankets is the key to a healthy and happy relationship in which sex is still on the table. But having two separate blankets on my bed doesn’t make me a monster; it’s an act of love.

Throughout human history, we have been cursed with a simple truth: we want to be warm in cold weather and cool when it’s hot. Perhaps it was the blindness of my love or simply the deep desire to have someone sleeping closer to the door than me in case of night murderers, but I failed to realized that I had romantically attached myself, for better or for worse, to what would either be classified as a man or portable woodstove, depending on which store you were trying to return him to. If you’ve ever been with someone whose average body temperature would make the sun’s surface feel like coastal Maine on a breezy fall day, keeping yourself shielded from him is your body’s survival instinct at work. If that shield happens to be a lightweight comforter designed by an old guy you just know is into boats, all the better!

Likewise, it was unlikely to have occurred to my love-person on the evening he gazed upon my nearly perfect 20-year-old ass for the first time that I would, in my old age, become a woman with self-diagnosed restless leg syndrome that causes me to steal blankets, mash them about with my feet, and discard them on the floor, where no one will enjoy their warmth. One evening, after crawling into bed with my feverish gentleman following a shower, my wet hair grazed his hotter-than-usual back, prompting him to attempt to fend off the invasion of what he later told me he believed to be a “water monster.” He tugged the blanket toward him, thus spinning me off the bed and onto the floor.

While the thought of adding a fourth party to our bed situation continued to haunt my thoughts, it wasn’t until our honeymoon in Iceland that the possibility of a two-blanket system became a reality. Our honeymoon suite, decked out with roses, wine, and a basket of apples (they’re wacky over there), also provided us two blankets, a common sleeping arrangement in many Scandinavian countries. “A bit of space and a lot of sleep are the best gifts you can give each other,” the note from the concierge read. “Please don’t ask us questions about Bjork.”

Scandinavians, on average, report higher rates of happiness than Americans. They tend to live longer. The number of deaths caused by being flung unceremoniously out of a bed is so low it’s practically not worth mentioning. Coincidence? Maybe. The night we brought the second blanket home, I cradled it in my hands, like a newborn, pressing my face to its soft and ample body. I wept. I slept.

Aside from being able to pay for coffee without forcing mean-spirited stage actors to feign interest in my day, perhaps the neatest thing about being a gainfully employed woman in modern times is never having to share a bed with someone so that I don’t freeze to death. I am the master of my own destiny, from flossing time to around noon the next day, or whenever it is that adults are supposed to wake up. If you need to feel the warmth of the person you love so that you can drift off, or even stranger, prefer to be cradled to their bosom as you do it, I have two suggestions for you: buy yourself a separate blanket before this gets any weirder, and call your mother. You guys have some things to work out.

For an activity predicated on the desire to be in and around the softer parts of other people, dating is, ironically, super hard. While women have the luxury of simply showing up looking like a land mermaid with a mink slipper vagina, a man’s role in the online-stranger sex fiasco we insist upon calling “romance” is less clear-cut.

For men, who are given contradictory information about how in touch with their emotions they should be—like how it’s cool to care a lot about cute dogs but never to cry during Terms of Endearment—dating can be a minefield, littered with broken hearts, cast-aside dreams, and smashed VHS copies of Terms of Endearment. Being a good boyfriend is more than showing up. It’s a carefully choreographed ballet, full of sex, tears, and Edible Arrangements. Here’s how to do it:

Stop trying to make everyone like your stuff. There are people who think shiny shirts make them look professional, not like an Eastern European arms dealer, and there are people who put Coexist bumper stickers on their PT Cruisers. Point is, there’s always going to be something your significant other is into that doesn’t speak to you, but unless that thing is an affiliation with the Nazi party or a desire to binge watch Franklin & Bash, you should probably give them a pass. Anyway, liking all the same things, at least in most cases, only guarantees you’ll run out of stuff to talk about eventually. The occasional fight is good for the soul, anyway; there’s a reason nobody ever has “we continue to agree on this topic” sex.

Choose kindness over winning arguments. Being right is awesome, and I should know—I do it practically all the time. However, if winning every argument is your top priority, the only things keeping you warm at night will be the radiant glow of your rightness and the blankets you don’t have to share because you now sleep alone. No matter how intellectually superior or passionate about a particular subject you consider yourself to be, letting your love-person occasionally say “ex-presso” or misidentify a few Civil War generals will serve you better in the long run. Constantly starting—and insisting upon winning—your battles isn’t going to make anyone change their mind, it’s just going to make them hate you.

Listen. Cocking your head to the side and doing your best approximation of the RCA dog isn’t enough for the modern women out there, with their Diva Cups and 401Ks. These days, listening is equal parts having ears and actually caring about the person you’re lending them to. If you want to keep seeing someone naked, work hard at being a good listener. Actively, no matter how dull you might find it initially. (Hopefully you don’t!) Nobody ever wanted to keep watching Terrence Malick movies after “The Thin Red Line,” and yet, here we are.

Respect existing relationships. Your partner’s friends were there long before you, and probably aren’t going away anytime soon. Unless you’re just a walking tornado of a person, it’s even less likely that your partner’s friends are actively trying to break you up. (Nefariousness takes cunning, skill, and practice, and with so many channels on TV, who has the time? ) If they are not completely monopolizing your boo’s time, using them, or otherwise working to ruin your significant other’s life, you need to live and let live. In spite of all the serious pants-feelings you have for your lady or dude, most of their friends are unlikely to share the same taste—a billion people have married Larry King, but Tom Hiddleston is still single. A lid for every pot, as they say.

Being a good boyfriend starts with being a good friend. So work toward that end. Ask your friends what they hate about you. Let them color in your “needs work” areas with a Sharpie. Listen. Wait.

We should all be lucky to have someone we can watch the same shows with.

Since most people are just pretending to care about baseball to impress some dad somewhere, I’m going to go ahead and say it: TV-watching is our real national pastime. (Come at me, drunk Yankees fans.) Night after night, countless men and women miss out on hours of sleep and minutes of sex because they’d heard rumors that a main character was going to get beheaded/castrated/have their boobs exposed on Game of Thrones.

If you’re lucky, you’ll meet someone whose face you find pleasant and at least symmetrical-adjacent, who doesn’t mind listening to you tell the same stories about your childhood pets over and over, and who might even be willing to watch you die eventually. However, if that person can’t muster the resolve to even start the first season of Orphan Black with you, they’re not the one. It may not seem like the end of the world today, but if you can’t find enough TV common ground to eventually see a future in which you’re cackling into the abyss at whatever after-after-after show we’ve found for Chris Hardwick’s reanimated head to host by then, the cracks in your foundation will bring down the whole house. Keep going home with this hater of joy, and 20 years from now you might find yourself laughing at jokes on reruns of The Big Bang Theory.

Of course, there are exceptions. You may be one of those people who insists upon telling everyone who can bear to be in your presence that you would never own a TV. (In which case I’m sure you’re too busy treating the spinal fracture you got from patting yourself on the back so hard to have a relationship, anyway!) You could be trapped under something heavy and positioned in such a way that you can’t get a good look at what’s on. You could just be a bunch of Yorkie puppies in a trench coat pretending to be a person. For the rest of us, though, we need to reach a common ground in pursuit of our most mindless, ass-fattening activity before we can form a more perfect union.

The stress of having something you love denigrated, belittled, or even just ignored can turn friends to enemies and lovers into people who don’t even bother to close the door to the bathroom when they’re using it. I once dated a man who insisted on watching the “Real World/Road Rules Challenge” every week from the comfort of my couch until I had no choice but to burn my entire building down and dance in the falling ashes, reveling in the searing quiet.

TV isn’t just a diversion—it fills a pressing need. Life is depressing and hard and frustrating, and even when it’s not, it sometimes feels good to turn off your brain and find a placid happiness that doesn’t involve fucking up your serotonin levels. Need to take a break from all the pain and suffering in the world with something lighthearted? Put on a few episodes of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. Trying to learn some jargon so you can keep pretending you went to business school? Tune into Shark Tank. Pretty sure you’re gay but need to confirm? Teen Wolf is still on.

Can you watch TV alone? Sure; you can drink alone and have sex alone, too. But if two people can’t put aside their differences for 22 minutes to enjoy one of life’s greatest pleasures, the fundamental mismatch in the relationship will only continue to drive a wedge between them. TV is good. TV is love. TV should be the glue that bonds us together, not what tears us apart. When we’re old and tired and our body is a jangling skeleton inside a spotted skin sack, we should be so lucky to have someone sitting there beside us, basking in the warm glow of a television set, waiting for the firemen to unstick us from the fabric of our sofas.

Sure, it might sound easy on paper. But there are subtleties a man must consider when bringing it in for the real thing.

As black sheep children with liberal arts degrees and non-profit jobs continue to decimate the lineage of America’s blue blood families, the air kiss is going the way of the dinosaur. In its place, we’re left with its pedestrian second cousin: the hug. Hugging, which combines the platonic intimacy of being cradled with the very real possibility of brushing against boobs, has usurped the air kiss, handshake, and other physical manifestations of hello as the dominant means of greeting someone—including, well, non-dudes. Hugging your bros is one thing. But for many men, the delicate balance required to hug a woman without making them feel like a mouse perched in the gaping maw of a boa constrictor is still something of a mystery. So how do you hug a girl, anyway?

Mind your member. In the immortal words of Next, “Girl, I know you felt it; boo, you know I can’t help it.” While ’90s R&B gods might be able to get away with a little poke comin’ through, when hugging in polite company, you’ll want to make sure you’re not rubbing your crotch on anyone: high school crushes, colleagues, aunts you may or may not actually be related to. I know this can be a difficult rule to follow—the junk wants what it wants—but keeping a little room for Jesus between you will keep you from incurring ball kicks or prison time.

Remember where you are. Once in a while, it’s an amazing feeling to be lifted off the ground in a passionate hug, kicking your legs out in pure joy as you’re spun around by whatever monster is strong enough to be doing this to you. Believe me. But do it at MoMA and they’re all, “Sir! Sir! We told you to keep your damn feet off Les Demoiselles d’Avignon!” Groan zone, right? Avoid sticky situations by being aware of your surroundings.

Practice, practice, practice. One key to avoiding an awkward semi-hug? Never hesitate. In fact, once you do it enough times, you’ll soon learn that there is a time and place for every kind of embrace. A single arm squeeze works for most co-workers. A brief hug with your shoulders tilted in and your hips out will do nicely for family gatherings. And a long hug punctuated by heavy breathing has always worked well as a non-cash tip for my mailman at Christmas.

No sniffing. This is so tempting! You would think that if people wanted to stop being sniffed when you hug them, they would make a conscious effort to smell less like green apple shampoo, pine needles, Dove soap, a little bit of sweat, or my dad.

Don’t put your mouth on her face. There’s so much we don’t know about the human face. Is it edible? Should we give it a small nibble? Why is she crying? When you’re hugging someone, planting a kiss on her cheek may seem like an appropriate way of showing your affection, but it’s also completely insane. Think about it. Is there any other time when you casually put your mouth on an acquaintance? Instead of eating $600 worth of Sephora products off her face, let’s keep our mouths out of it. Kissing someone on the cheek doesn’t mean you’ll get to kiss her on the mouth any more than screaming before dawn makes you a rooster.

And there you have it. Don’t let your life pass you by without experiencing the sixth- or seventh-best form of intimacy on a semi-regular basis. If all else fails, I guess you could just die alone.

Cat/dog/lizard won’t leave you alone when you’re trying to get laid? You aren’t alone.

If you’ve ever decided to spend a night in, clearing out your DVR and tossing tortilla chips down your gullet like so many salmon to a bear, only to find yourself crippled by an existential wave of loneliness, it might be time to consider a pet. For anyone who desires blindly loving companionship without all the hoverboards and vomiting that are part and parcel of raising children, pets can open your heart to love like you’ve never experienced before. However, when it comes time to get down to that kind of love you’re used to enjoying (read: intercourse), your furry friend can be a real imposition, their impassioned attempts to free you from your humper or humpee effectively decimating the bone buffet you were hoping to enjoy. Before you decide to embark on a life without anybody to take to a dog parade and thousands of missed opportunities for Instagram likes, take a bit of time to consider the risks and rewards of letting one of these fuzzy little cockblocks into your home.

Cats
There’s no nice way to put this: cats are nightmares. They’re very cute, which makes it difficult to see them cooped up five-to-a-cage at your local shelter, their soft widdle paws and weepy eyes begging you to take them home to snuggle forever. Once you let them skulk their way into your life, however, the notion of having sex will become an in-joke for you and your significant other as you slather Neosporin on one another’s scratched-up bodies and beg for death’s merciful release.

Solution: Despite its unfathomable levels of hatred for you, your cat wants to be near you at all times. To buy yourself enough time to get it in before your cat starts its revenge plot, provide said feline a table covered in assorted valuables they can ruin—fragile urns, first-edition novels, and smaller animals they can sit on and smother to death will work nicely.

Dogs
Dogs giveth and dogs taketh away. For many uggos and hard weirds, a dog is the only thing that will convince another person you’re not a serial killer for long enough to get naked with you. Ironically, your dog’s fierce loyalty to you will keep you from ever humping again, their incessant barking and whimpering from the other side of the door immediately undoing any goodwill their cute face initially earned you.

Solution: Don’t quote me on this, but I’ve heard that if an animal so much as looks you in the eye during sex, you’re going to jail. So it’s pretty important that you get that little crotch-sniffer out of your house as soon as the mood strikes. Fortunately, there are people out there who do all the physical activity and poop-adjacent behavior of dog-rearing for money, which can buy you some time to take your skin schooner to the meat marina. Wag is good.

Fish
Anyone who’s ever watched a porno shot before 1990 can attest to the fact that aquariums are the second most erotic thing you can keep in your home. However, the grating sound of their mechanical elements and all those dead fish floating at the top can really kill the mood.

Solution: Lucky for you, the fish tank does have advantages. One of the sexiest things I’ve ever experienced is watching one of my tropical fish slowly and methodically eat all the others until he was the only one left in the tank. If you can figure out how to replicate this kind of cannibalistic accident, I highly recommend going for it. Otherwise, just get a betta fish and call it a day.

Reptiles
Making room in your van for your sex partner and scaly friend may feel like the world’s most nervewracking game of sexual Jenga, but trust me, it’s doable.

Solution: Security at Whitesnake concerts is usually pretty light, so get creative with your coital location—standing up sex isn’t just for the 1% anymore!!

Birds
If you have a home full of birds and have gotten someone to willingly enter it and stay long enough to put their mouth on yours, do whatever you can within the bounds of the law to make them stay—that creep is your soulmate, pal.